III-XII

Gordon Makimmon, absorbed in the
difficult and elusive calculations of his indefinable
project was unaware of the
change wrought by their departure, of the shifting of
the year, the familiar acts and living about him.
He looked up abruptly from the road when Valentine
Simmons, upon the platform of the store, arrested
his progress homeward.

Simmons' voice was high and shrill, as though
time had tightened and dried his vocal cords; his
cheeks were still round and pink, but they were sapless,
the color lingered like a film of desiccated
paint.

The store remained unchanged: Sampson, the
clerk, had gone, but another, identical in shirt
sleeves upheld by bowed elastics, was brushing the
counters with a turkey wing; the merchandise on the
shelves, unloaded from the slow procession of capacious
mountain wagons, flowed in endless, unvaried
stream to the scattered, upland homes.

Valentine Simmons took his familiar place in the
glass enclosure, revolving his chair to fix on Gordon
a birdlike attention.

[[319]]

p318 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p319w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p320

v?